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“I couldn’t.” Jett’s father is already heading back out into the hallway. “I’m sure the kid didn’t even notice I wasn’t there. Come into my office, I need to talk to you about something important.”
Paul disappears, leaving Jett standing there, his jaw tight, frustration radiating off him. With a heavy sigh, he follows his father, still holding his briefcase.
My resignation letter stays hidden, tucked safely away.
For now.
Chapter 7
JETT
I follow my father into his office, my footsteps echoing in the cold, sterile space. The walls are lined with dark wood shelves, displaying trophies of power—artifacts from deals that broke men and made him richer. His massive mahogany desk commands the center of the room, a monument to his authority. The city stretches out behind him through floor-to-ceiling windows, but there’s no warmth here. It’s all business. Just like him.
He drops into his chair with a weary sigh, irritation etched into every line on his face. “Tell me about Monaco.” He sounds like he’s bored already.
I don’t sit. I stay standing, arms crossed, jaw tight. “I was in the middle of a conversation with Cari.” My voice is sharper than I intend. I hate that I followed him here, like I always do, like I’m still that obedient son chasing his approval.
But I’m angrier at Cari, at the way she snapped at me earlier. She’s never talked to me like that before. I thought offering to buy more tickets would fix it, but she was pissed about missing that concert of hers. And yet I couldn't help but notice how she came alive when her temper got the better of her. A fire blazed in her eyes that made me take notice. Usually she sits quietly working away, head down. But seeing her all worked up, her breaths coming faster, her chest heaving a little in anger, I couldn't help but feel a lick of something tingling down my spine. Whatever it was, the unexpected arrival of my father poured water over it.
The man doesn’t even blink. “Monaco,” he repeats, his voice cold.
“You want to talk about Monaco?” My arms tighten across my chest. “How about you explain why you couldn’t make it to Brooke’s birthday party?”
His face doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. He pulls out his wallet, slips a hundred-dollar bill out, and slides it across the desk toward me. “Tell her Grandpa sent this.”
I stare at the bill like it’s poison. This man taught me that money solves everything, but I’m beginning to see that it’s not true. He wants me to accept that this bill makes up for his absence. I leave it sitting there. “Monaco worked out. The contracts were solid, and I signed the deal.”
“Good.” He leans back in his chair, looking like he’s finally gotten what he was after. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
I stand there, silent. Waiting for him to ask about Brooke. To ask how the party went, or hell, to even ask about her in general. But he doesn’t. He never does. He's shown about as much interest in her as he did in us when we were growing up.
“And you went with that ... that oncologist?” His voice drips with condescension.
My jaw clenches. He doesn’t even know her name. Also, he’s about two girlfriends behind. I dated the oncologist before I met Dina. “Alicia,” I say, teeth grinding. “Her name is Alicia. Try saying it. And she’s an attorney.”
He waves me off, like it doesn’t matter. “You always go for the brainy ones. Is it serious?”
I bristle at the pointed interest in her, every cell in my body preparing for battle. Something is up. “What’s it to you?”
“If it took you that long to answer, it can’t be serious.” His cold, steel-grey eyes hold mine.
My patience snaps. “Whatever it is, it’s none of your business.”
My father’s eyes narrow, his voice lowering to that icy tone I know too well. “If it’s just sex ...”
I flinch, my muscles locking up. That word, coming from him, makes my skin crawl. We don’t talk like this. We don’t talk about anything personal, ever. And not about this. It’s very rare for this man to care or ask about our personal lives. Paul Knight is only interested in brokering deals and growing the Knight empire. An uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach warns me that there’s something behind his inquiry.
I exhale sharply. “I don’t care what you’re thinking. Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”
“Arminio Oliveira.” He throws the name out like it should mean something to me.
I frown, thrown off by the quantum jump in his conversation. “Who?”
“He’s the head of a telecoms empire in Brazil. You recall my visit to Brazil recently? I met with him, and I truly believe that we could do wonders if we join forces.”
What the hell? I try to connect the dots and fail. “Join forces? Are we going for another hostile takeover?”
His lips twitch into something resembling a smile, but there’s no humor behind it. “He has a daughter. A beautiful, Brazilian heiress. Unmarried. Not a dried-up spinster. Even I wouldn’t do that to you.”